On the raised dais, the atmosphere was a sharp departure from the perfumed chatter of the ballroom floor. Here, the air smelled of aged oak, bitter Noctharian wine, and the cold, metallic scent of unspoken strategies.
Lord Peregrine Stormlow leaned forward, his fist resting on the table beside a heavy silver goblet. His gaze was fixed on Levan, not as a subject to a Prince, but as one commander to another.
"The border reports from the Western Pass are troubling but not yet beyond control," Lord Sormlow muttered, his voice low enough to be drowned out by the orchestra. "The Blithe has retreated from the soil, but the mountain tribes are restless. They see our recovery as a weakness to be exploited before the new alliance fully hardens."
"What have you done about it?" Levan asked calmly.
